Four years
by HaveSomeNostalgia
Summary: Four years. That is the number of years since Sherlock has last seen his Doctor. What happens when he decides to pay him a visit?


Four years.

1460.97 days.

35063.3 hours.

That was roughly the amount of time Sherlock calculated he had been away from John Watson. Never in his twenty-eight years of living did Sherlock care for another human being. He managed to detach him self from emotions. He was a self proclaimed sociopath anyway.

Sociopath:

A person with antisocial personality disorder. Probably the most widely recognized personality disorder. A sociopath is often well liked because of their charm and high charisma, but they do not usually care about other people. They think mainly of themselves and often blame others for the things that they do. They have a complete disregard for rules and lie constantly. They seldom feel guilt or learn from punishments. Though some sociopaths have become murders, most reveal their sociopath through less deadly and sensational means.

Yep, sounds about right. Even thought Sherlock claimed to lack any emotions John knew better. He knew the detective did have emotions, He just chose not to show them so he wouldn't end up hurt. Somehow, Sherlock knew he would end up getting hurt emotionally or hurting the one person he has ever loved: John. The large building complex was squished between a run-down printing shop and a rather new antique shop. The building was obviously old. The navy blue paint slathered across the door leading inside was now peeling and chipping. Leaving behind blue paint chips scattered in a large pile in the over-grown grass. Even the door knocker was rusting.221B Baker Street_. _The building sure did lose a lot of its appeal over the years. With cautious steps Sherlock made his way into the aging building. The overwhelming smell of Chinese take out and what he deemed the smell of sex hit his sensitive nose.

"Disgusting." He thought.

The floor boards let out a loud _creak_ as Sherlock made his way up the stairs. His mind was swarming with all the different scenarios that he could find when he would make his way up to his old home. What if John moved out? Would his stuff be there? What if he had a family? The only way to find out was to see for him self. He was nearing the last step before his left leg went right threw the molded step. After he struggled in vain the Detective managed to free his leg from the caved in step. Now there was a large hole from where his leg went threw. With a perk in his step Sherlock found himself standing in front of the door leading into his old flat-mate's apartment. The door was slightly agape, no one even bothered to close it. That saved Sherlock from having to knock and wait for John to answer it. On surprisingly shaky legs Sherlock entered his apartment in search for John. The kitchen was just like he remembered. His microscope sat in an ocean of different AARP brochures, coupons, news articles and bills. The living room was also empty.

With a string of profanities under his breath Sherlock made his way down the halls which lead to the bedrooms. John's room was tidy; it was recently cleaned by a female. The strong smell of overly-priced perfume lingered in the air. Next was what used to be his bedroom. When he peered inside there lay a small body shaking from the coldness of the room. John himself lay strewn across the bed, his body showing the tell-tale signs of misery and malnutrition. He was shirtless, exposing a smooth narrow waist. He was on his back, one arm over his chest and the other hanging off the bed in what would have been a comfy position. He was sick, however, and everything hurt. Everything. For the time his painkillers had coaxed him into a fitful sleep, which showed little mercy in saving him from the haunting pain and nausea.

Sherlock placed a finger over John's wrist to make sure the man was actually alive. He still had a pulse. He breathing came out in shallow breaths. His stomach let out a loud grown signaling Sherlock that John didn't eat. Usually it was John who would remind Sherlock to eat. Oh, how the tables have turned. Slowly but surely Sherlock made his way back into the abandoned kitchen in search for some food. The fridge was empty with the exception of a decomposing human head. Sherlock noticed how the head was rather new and most likely from Lestrade. The only source of food Sherlock found was in the bottom cabinet and it was a box of Gold fish. The catchy song came to his mind: _The snack that smiles back, gold fish!_

He reached in the bag and made sure to taste one of the cheese flavored fish before he gave it to the sick Doctor. They where stale but they would have to do. Making his way back to his room he noticed that the brown coffee table had numerous bottles of pills on it. He made sure to examine every single one. He couldn't believe the amount of bottles there where. Eszopiclone, **Restoril**, Lexapro, Adapin, Viibryd, and **Xanax. Most of them where for sleeping and Anti-Depressants. Sherlock was sure that John had his psychiatrist prescribe these to him. **

He could slowly, but surely, feel pangs of guilt steeling in. His emotions where starting to show. His face twisted into something ugly as he shook the pill bottles to find most of them half empty. He turned quick on his Italian Leather heel to care for the Doctor. Once there, Sherlock sat on the occupied making sure not to wake John just yet.

"Nggh, who's there?"

The voice was small and sound absolutely petried. The voice of a small child left alone in a crowd full of strangers'. The body under the covers pulled them back so they could look at the face of their intruder. A small gasp filled the air as John's tired eyes look at his old mate looking staring down at him... This wasn't real, Sherlock was **dead. **Six feet under. His dead body was most likely having maggots and different insects feast on his skeleton. The pills where messing with his brain. He may have taken one to many.

"John. It's me, Sherlock. You're not dreaming. I promise. Let me-"

"P-please, ah didn'd-do nufing! Don't hurt meee!" John wailed pathetically.

It was only then did Sherlock realize that he his left arm had made its way toward john's face. His pale fingers skimmed the mans face. The doctor was somewhere between swelteringly hot and chillingly cold, as though his immune system was so far distressed that it couldn't decide on one or the other. He was trembling numbly, hardly shifting at the touch. He was otherwise limp, lying almost flat against the bed. His golden hair now caressed his thin shoulders in slight curls at the ends; it was in need of a wash. There where still bags under his blue eyes, he looked completely exhausted. Sherlock could feel his heart breaking at the sight of the Army Doctor so worn out. What made it worse was the fact he had caused this. If he never would have left, John and he could still be happy doing different murder cases. Neither John nor Sherlock where happy. Not even close.

"John, please stop crying. I'm back; everything can be back to normal. I promise." Sherlock knew he was filling John's head with empty promises. John could only stare back at Sherlock with hazy eyes. John's small hand reached from under the cover to reach out and stroke the stubble on the detectives face. Sherlock leaned into the warm hand that traced the corner of his lips. It was a simple gesture that meant the world to him. Much too soon John retreated his hand from Sherlock's face and placed it back over his stomach. John's mind was still trying to come to terms with the fact Sherlock was actually here.

"Dun' make p-promises' yew con' keep"

Sherlock reached inside the bag of gold fish and grabbed one bringing it up to John's small lips. The Doctor's eyes closed and his breathing became softer. Sherlock pushed the gold fish against his mouth once more until John opened his mouth. Sherlock repeated this process numerous times. A sudden sharp pain in his stomach made John gasp out in shock and pain. His eyes blurred with hot tears as the pain proceed to make its way all throughout his body. Sherlock watched in horror as John shifted his body until his was in a fetal position clutching his throbbing head in his thin hands. Sherlock learned forward and gently petted John's damp hair; this seemed to help a little. John's body became less stiff as Sherlock hummed '_Heart of Gold'_ by Neil Young. That always relaxed the Army Doctor when he would wake up in the middle of the night having yet another nightmare. That or the violin. Sherlock looked around the room in search for his Violin but couldn't find it. His skull was sitting on his old Lamp Table. .

'I wonder if Lestrade, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson still come over.'

_Knock! Knock! Knock!_

Sherlock stayed completely still as the Knocking became harder and more urgent. Who ever was at the door really wanted to get inside. John's body jumped at the sound of the hard knocks, he pulled the cover over his head shielding himself away. The rustle of keys was heard before soft clicking of heels. Sherlock could smell the exact same perfume from earlier as a woman stood in the door way. She was at the age of twenty-six. Her hair was a bright shade of red, which had been cut in a bob. The hair was cut around her ears to show off her large pale ears. Large but delicately framed. She had a face like Sarah Jessica Parker. A horse face. Large blue eyes, nice cheekbones, full lips. Her green Christmas jumper was stretched over her swollen bosom. She had a look about her that made her seem unapproachable. The unnamed woman noticed Sherlock as he raised from his seat one the bed and stood in front of her.

"Y-you're Sherlock Holmes! How are you alive!? W-what is going on?" Her voice was rough and tired.

"I rather not speak on that subject just yet. All you need to know is that I have come back for John. I will be making sure he is okay than we may end up leaving this apartment."

"You left him! **FOUR YEARS**! Do you not-"She was cut off midsentence.

"Do you not see John sleeping? Why are you raising your voice? Please, be considerate." He whispered harshly.

"You can't just come back and take him away with you."

"I can. Also, I had to leave for some time to make sure no one came after John. That's why everyone thought I was dead."

A muffled groan cut threw the tense air. It was John. He had managed to crawl out of the bed and make his way toward the bathroom. Midway he lost his footing and fell face first. Before his face could slam into the floor Sherlock's strong hands wrapped around his thin waist. John's face became warm when the Detective picked him up bridal style carrying him into the bathroom.

_He needs proper nutrition. Fast._

Once in the bathroom Sherlock waited until John found his footing than left the man to his business. Once back inside of the bedroom the red headed woman crossed her arms over her breast. Her face twisted up in a scowl straight toward Sherlock.

"You leave for four years, than just think you can walk balk in his life? Are you crazy? You can't just do that!"

"I had no choice but leave for so long. It was for John's safety."

"Oh, sure! Whatever you say, just leave your best mate alone for all this time!"

"It was that or get John killed."

"You know, I heard a lot about you. Many people told me of what a nutcase you are. I guess they where right. Do you even know how bad you being gone affected John? Do you even care? I'm sure you don't you are a sociopath, right? No emotions what so ever huh?" Sherlock stood perfectly still as John's nurse told him off. What she was saying was mostly true. Neither Sherlock nor the woman noticed John creeping out of the bathroom.

"Shuddup!" John yelled from his spot leaning for support against the dresser. "Juss shuddup awready! Yew d-dun' even fockin' _know_ me! Juss shuddup!" His words were heavily muffled and thick with sobbing, but the bite in his voice had her stumbling backward. "I-I dun even need yew!"

"John, please stay calm. Let's go get a bite to eat. How does that sound?" Softly Brenda leaned out to grasp John's hand and lead him from the apartment. And away from Sherlock.

"Ah said shut tha fock up! Git yewr bloody fockin' 'ands offa me! If yewr 'ungwry, den go 'n fockin' ea', but ah dun' wont nufink, okay! Jus' leave me alone awready!

"Fine. I'll leave; your medication is all in the living room on the table. I'll be back tomorrow to make sure everything is okay. His stomach can't hold but a little but of food so don't try and over feed him. Make sure John get's plenty of rest also. He barely sleeps anymore."

John let out a frustrated sigh as he hobbled over to Sherlock's bed. Once at the foot of the bed he fell face in the cool sheets, letting out a muffled cry. He managed to crawl up toward the inviting pillows. Sherlock gave Brenda a soft smile as she picked up her black duffle bag and left the room. She didn't even bother returning the smile. She was just so happy to get out of that room. Once Sherlock heard the soft _Click_ of the front door he was sure she had officially left. He let out a deep sigh he was not aware he had been holding in.

"Do you feel any better?" Sherlock spoke softly. Despite his soft voice John seemed surprised by this. He thought Sherlock had left also.

"Yews."

"Well, good. I'm going to make sure you get better. Much better. Than we can go back to how we used to be."

Sherlock dipped his head to be closer to John's face, murmuring sweet things about getting him well again that the detective could barely remember in the back of his mind, motherly words from a woman he'd never know. A sudden tug on his dress shirt made Sherlock meet John's tired gaze. Much to his surprise John scooted over and pulled back the covers in an inviting way.

"Pwease, Sherlawk."

Sherlock noticed the way John's words came out slow and he could barely make out what the doctor was trying to say. He ignored that as he took off his shoes, than his coat. Once that was taken care of Sherlock suck in bed next to his best friend. His only friend. John smelt sick. Much like an old room that was closed up for a long time. It wasn't a horrible smell but not a smell Sherlock would want to smell all the time. John turned to face Sherlock's god like face. John cracked a smile. It was his first genuine smile in a very long time.

Sherlock smiled softly, his thumb drifting aside as the detective leaned in to gently touch John's lips to his. It was strange, but a thrill ran through him and down his body, slowing and fading as it reached the end, leaving him slightly breathless and confused. It had felt right in the end, and that's what counted, Sherlock assured himself as he wormed his way closer, a few inches away now, and took John's hands in his.

John's slight smile grew a bit more as he weakly intertwined his fingers with Sherlock's.

"Y-y'know..." He murmured, feeling colder than before. "Yewr m-mah bes' m-mate... Yeh?"

"Of course," Sherlock murmured, his lips still tingling slightly. "Your mine too...my _only_ mate, really..."

John let out a shaky sigh, he moved closer to Sherlock as he rested their foreheads together. A new feeling came up in the pit of his stomach. It wasn't a pain but more of a feel of relief. His blue eyes became dimmer as his eyes fluttered shut. It was time. He knew it.

"Time for you to get some rest. Okay?"

"Pwomise, you'll be here in the mornin'."

"I promise."

John gave Sherlock's hand a tight squeeze. This may be their last time. Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his bow shaped lips to John's warmer ones. This meant the world to both men. Sherlock watched as John drifted off into a light sleep. He soon followed suit. In the night John could feel his pulse slowly fading until it stopped all together. His breathing was faint until he could breathe one last thing in Sherlock's hair:

"I love yew, Sherlawk."

He gave Sherlock one last kiss on the cheek before he took his last

Breath. Tears and a small smile where still plastered on his face.

Night turned to day before Sherlock knew it. Despite been woken up by loud groaning coming from the apartment next door Sherlock smiled. He had John here with him. He looked down at the Doctor and knew something was very wrong. Sherlock put his head against John's chest. No a single beat of a heart could be heard. Next he checked his pulse, which had stopped.

"John, wake up. Please."

Sherlock grasped John's thin shoulders and began to shake him like a rag doll. Sherlock's worst fears came into play. "Please, wake up. Come on! Damn you!" John remained unresponsive. Despite Sherlock's heart-wrenching display, nothing could or would wake he man. A loud screech filled the air as Sherlock began to bawl in the crook of John's neck. After an hour of a nice long cry Sherlock stumbled out of the bed. He grabbed John's phone from off of the bedroom dresser. Who could he call? Everyone thought he was dead. He found Brenda's number under 'House Nurse' he pressed the call button.

After minutes Brenda finally picked up her phone. Her voice was clearly annoyed. "Hello? John? Is everything all right?"

"Brenda, I-its Sherlock. John…is gone."

The young woman was in the process of raking a brush through her hair. The moment those words left Sherlock's mouth all she could do was drop the phone and brush.

"I'll be there in about ten minutes!"

Sherlock hung up the phone.

Finally admitting defeat, Sherlock cried, loud wracking sobs consuming him. After all this sat in numbness and tried to think of what he should do. All he knew was that his John was gone. After all this time the main reason he kept going on was gone. Sharp pangs of pain hit Sherlock right in his heart. It was unbearable. Sudden stomping of feet make Sherlock look up toward Brenda. She was staring at John's corpse. She brought a delicate hand up to her mouth to stop her breakfast from coming up. She couldn't stop the broken sob that left her mouth as she looked at her deceased friend. She spent four years taking care of John as if he where her brother. Her teary gaze turned to Sherlock as the detective cried in his hands. All these emotions he chose to keep hidden away came to surface.

"What did you do?" She questioned, voice hurt.

"I was sleeping right next to him. Don't you think I did anything to hurt him!"

Brenda moved with cat like grace toward the edge of the bed. Her thin fingers brushing over John's small smile. He always had a way of smiling no matter what the situation was. "Did he ever tell you how he felt?"

The sudden question suppressed Sherlock a little as he looked to meet her eyes. She was trying to keep it together. She was failing miserably.

"No, he didn't."

"You know he loved you right? You where the main person he ever talked about when I came over. All of your different cases, games you played, everything. You where his favorite subject. He loved you so much, you know? He was in love with you. He never told you because he knew you where married to your work. I'm sure he felt you would never feel the same way. Oh god, you should have saw how hurt he was after your 'death'. I have never seen someone so broken in my entire life."

Sherlock hung his curly head in guilt as he remembered seeing John's face when he heard of Sherlock's 'suicide'. Sherlock made sure to stay hidden behind large trees when Lestrade was the one to tell John of the death of his best friend. Everyone was affected by Sherlock's death. Even though Molly Hooper was the one to help Sherlock fake his death, she was still hurt. Even Anderson and Sally seemed upset. John was left to pick up the pieces of his life after Sherlock was gone. It was difficult. Sherlock made sure to stay in England, hidden away, to check on John. Even if that was following him on cases, peeping into his bedroom window. It may seem odd, but Sherlock was happy he could keep an eye on the Doctor. Even if it was from a distance.

"I want to show you something. Come on."

Sherlock stood and followed the younger woman into John's actually bed room. It was just as neat as Sherlock remembered always seeing it. Brenda reached into John's closet and handed him a large box full of different journals.

"These where his, they where all about you mostly. I think he may have wanted you to keep these. Take good care of them."

Sherlock didn't trust his voice at that moment so he nodded his head and walked back into his old room. Brenda followed. A bright light beamed through the window on john's relaxed face. He looked so peaceful. Brenda let out a string of broken sobs as she crumpled to her knees by John. This was way too much for Sherlock to handle so he slipped on his shoes and coat and made his way out of the apartment. John's box of journals in his arms. All he knew was that he had to get away from that apartment. During four years Sherlock moved into an isolated cabin outside of him home in London. There he spent most of his time reading about different unsolved murder cases. Now he spent his time reading John's journals. The man poured every feeling from his body into his notebooks. Sherlock made sure to read every single book. Some times he would read them three and four times over. By the end of reading a page he would end up crying or looking under the floor boards for his pack of fags to calm his nerves.

He never went to John's funeral. He never went looking for anyone. Rumor had it Molly had disappeared as he himself had. Some said Mycroft died in a car accident. He also heard Mrs. Hudson had a heart attack when she found out about John's passing. For Lestrade, no one knows what happened to him. Sherlock was sure he may have just taken a break from the police force.

Sherlock mourned for each of them, although he desperately hoped they were just rumors. He, on the other hand, was lost to the world, alive but unknown. Many believed him to be dead as well, either deep in the drink or just lying in a ditch on the side of a road somewhere. In reality, he'd spent the next three years in his cabin drinking and doing as much cocaine as he liked. Every night before he took a well needed nap he would look out his window and imagine John waiting for him. Waiting for him to come home. Home. Sherlock often wondered how to get there, wanting to see John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and even Mycroft again. Just to see his friends again...so he did. Eventually, as time wore on and he slipped ever-further into madness, Sherlock pulled the trigger on his own pathetic life one night as he watched the stars pass him by overhead.

This is what he always wanted. To be happy.

Because happiness, as we know, is a warm gun.


End file.
